


Unconventional

by bughnrahk



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gentle Sex, He's just the android sent by cyberlife, Jeffrey's a fabulous wingman, Kendoll Connor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omega Hank, Ridiculously gentle sex, Rimming, Sex Toys, Top Connor, Who is not an alpha, Wire Play, and he's tired of these idiots, or a beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk/pseuds/bughnrahk
Summary: "Jesus Christ, Connor! Don't put that in your mouth. Fuck."Connor's processors are already analyzing. Pheromones. Hormones. Sweat. And the oddly sweet flavor of internal lubrication."You're in heat."Hank rolls his eyes and shoves passed Connor to rip the sheets off the bed. "I realized that, thanks."--Hank is an omega and Connor doesn't even have genitals, let alone a secondary gender, but he's determined to make this work.





	Unconventional

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a trash fire. I'm garbage. This idea wouldn't leave me alone. My first foray into fandom and I'm gonna write /all the tropes/. Judge me. I deserve it.

A _bang_ shudders through the house, jolting Connor out of stasis. It takes Connor milliseconds to register that it’s Hank’s bedroom door, smashing against the opposite wall. How long has Connor been dormant?  Hank never gets up before 9 on his own, but... no. Connor's internal clock says it's 6 in the morning. Hours before they're due at the office. Ages before Hank would ever choose to drag himself out of bed.

"Fuck." Hank snarls a string of curses and slams the bathroom door shut.

Connor peels himself off the couch to investigate. He pads down the hallway and stops between Hank's bedroom and the bathroom. Hank left his bedroom door open, and Connor can see the general disarray of his room. Clothes everywhere, old food containers littering the end tables. The blankets and bedsheets are a tangled mess. There's a large dark spot on the bed that looks wet. Connor's brow furrows. His LED flashes.

"Hank?"

"I'm fine," Hank growls from the bathroom. His voice is hoarse. "Don't worry about it."

So Connor proceeds to do just that - _worry_ \- because Hank's 'don't worry' means there's something wrong. He steps into Hank's bedroom, knowing that this is a breach of privacy, but Hank is unlikely to tell Connor what the problem is, so he has no choice but to investigate. He's only doing it for Hank's safety. It’s all perfectly logical. Connor stops at the bed and presses his fingers to the damp spot, then touches them to his tongue.

The bathroom door creaks open. Hank can _see_ him from across the hall.

"Jesus C _hrist_ , Connor!" Hank flushes. Or he was already flushed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He's stripped off his clothes and has a towel wrapped around his hips. Connor's eyes are drawn to the faded tattoo buried under his chest hair. "Don't put that in your mouth. Fuck."

Connor's processors are already analyzing. Pheromones. Hormones. Sweat. And the oddly sweet flavor of internal lubrication.

"You're in heat."

Hank rolls his eyes and shoves passed Connor to rip the sheets off the bed. "I realized that, thanks."

Connor helps pull the blankets off. Hank tenses and stares at him a moment, but Connor's grip on the bedclothes doesn't relent, so Hank _does_. He's clearly exhausted. There's a tremble in his hands, his thighs. Connor can tell without touching him that he's running a fever. The heat breaking through Hank's body. Connor takes the load from Hank's arms and bundles it down the hallway to the washing machine. He doesn't really see the point in this, what Hank's plan is exactly, but he's not going to argue.

"Fuck. I've gotta call Jeffrey."Hank brushes his hair out of his face and grabs his phone off the side table. "I thought I was done with this shit. I haven't had a heat in years."

"It's not uncommon for omegas your age to have short, intermittent heats."

Hank waves him off and heads back to the bedroom. He shuts the door this time, so Connor doesn't follow. He does _listen_ though. Hank's voice is muffled. Subdued. He's obviously embarrassed. He could have called into the reception desk, but it sounds like he's decided to call Jeffrey directly. Hank goes quiet for a long time and Connor tamps down the urge to dial up his auditory sensitivity so he can pick up Jeffrey's response.

"It's not exactly my idea of a good time either, Jeffrey. Cut me some slack."

Jeffrey takes his time with a response. Hank huffs and hangs up.

Last year Hank wouldn't have even bothered calling in. He would have simply not shown up and let the DPD deal with the fallout, but Hank had gotten a lot better about his tardiness. He didn't drink as much, didn't spend every evening wallowing, and he hadn't taken his personal revolver out on lonely nights since Connor had started living with him. Missing a few days for a legitimate medical concern wasn't unreasonable.

When Hank left the room a second time, he was dressed, and Connor tamped down the fizzle of disappointment at the sight. Just a loose t-shirt and some boxers, but Connor very rarely had the opportunity to see Hank in any state of nudity. He'd hoped, maybe, the heat would drive Hank to remain shirtless at least. Clearly Hank's discomfort over his own body won out over the discomfort of his temperature.  

Connor wanted to tell him he didn't have to be self-conscious. That Connor, at least, appreciated Hank's build. The coarse hair heavy on his chest and trailing down his thick gut. How _human_ he looked. But Connor... couldn't.

Because Hank was an omega, and Connor was just an android. Not an alpha, not even a beta. But an android. Sexless, genderless, unappealing. Some models were designed to imitate pheromones and sexual features, but Connor had been made to track down deviants. Producing simulated pheromones and being able to knot someone wasn't part of the package.

They were incompatible, but Connor wanted, so badly, to close that distance with Hank. To open their relationship up to something more. Hank was inside Connor's code, rewriting sections with Hank's scent. Hank's face. The curve of Hank's body.  The number of pores in his skin and the way his hair grew in whorls on his chest, his arms, his stomach.

Connor has no idea how to articulate any of this to him.

"Do you want me to stay home with you?"

"God no." Hank rummages through the fridge, then stops and leans back. To enjoy the coolness, Connor suspects. "I'm gonna be terrible company until this is over. You might as well get some work done. It'll keep Jeffrey off my back." He pulls a can of beer from the bottom shelf, but instead of popping the tab like Connor expects, he holds it against the back of his neck.

"If you're sure."

"Honestly? I'd rather be alone while I deal with this."

Most omegas get a partner to help them through their heats. Not always a bond and not always an alpha, but few of them tried to make it through their heats on their own. There was a reason those sex clubs, like Eden, existed, catering to alphas and omegas alike. Hank had options (none that made Connor happy to contemplate), why would he want to do it alone?

"Isn't that uncomfortable?"

"It sure as hell isn't fun, but it's manageable. Won't be the first time." He palms the beer and kicks the fridge shut. "Last thing I want to deal with is a fucking alpha, anyway." He pauses on his route back to the bedroom and glues his eyes on Connor. Connor can't read his expression, but there's something off about it. Connor glances down at himself, in case there's something out of place. Hank snorts and ambles down the hallway. "Get outta here, kid. I'll be fine."

Connor has never wanted to skip work more.

\--

Connor leaves the office earlier than he ever has before. He's eager to get home and check on Hank. He hasn't returned any of Connor's texts and the worry has been building inside Connor since he stepped out the door that morning. He's glad he took Hank's car, so he doesn't have to wait for a taxi, and he can cheat the speed limit as much as he wants without trying to reprogram a government vehicle.

Sumo is whining at the door when Connor gets home. He gives the dog a distracted scruff behind the ears and lets him out to do his business. Hank might not have had the chance to let him out. In fact... the house looks untouched, since that morning. Connor noses through the fridge to find everything exactly where he'd left it. He frowns. He lets Sumo back in the house, locks the door behind him (something neither of them bother to do very often, but Connor is distracted and Hank is... incapacitated), and heads down the hallway.

He stops in front of Hank's bedroom door and raps his knuckles gently against the wood. "Have you eaten?"

Hank grunts. The bed shifts. "Kinda busy, Connor!"

Busy doing _what_ isn't difficult to discern. Wet slick noises emanate from behind the closed door. Hank's groans are muffled, choked off. With a slight adjustment to his sensors Connor can make out the rapid thrum of Hank's heartbeat. He can't pick up scents as well as a human, but the cloud of pheromones is so thick that it overwhelms Connor's chemical analysis program.

"I'm going to make you something to eat." Heats were taxing, and if Hank had been sweating and... exerting himself... all day, he'd need the calories. "Do you have water at least?"

Connor receives an unsteady grunt in response. He decides to take that as a ' _no,'_ and curses Hank's self-destructive behavior.

He sets to work in the kitchen, trying to put together something that doesn't require a lot of cooking. Hank probably couldn't handle hot food right now. Maybe he should head out to the store and pick up some frozen desserts or fruit, they have neither in the fridge, and Connor wishes he'd had the forethought to pick something up before he got home.

Because, as much as he wants to help Hank, he's not leaving the house again.

He manages to put together some cheese sandwiches and pours water into the tallest glass Hank owns.

He heads down the hall and pauses outside of Hank's door. "Hank?"

"I'm fine!" Hank barks.

Connor frowns and shoulders the door open.

Hank is on his knees on the bed, face turned against a pillow. His thighs glisten with slick and there's a puddle around his knees, darkening the sheets. He's balanced on one shoulder and rocks a toy into his anus with the other. He's covered in sweat, his eyes clamped shut in pleasure-pain, teeth flashing between his lips in a grimace.

It's the most gorgeous thing Connor has ever seen.

Connor should leave. He should really, really leave. This is a massive social faux pas and if Hank notices him, he's going to lose his shit. He's going to-

Hank cracks an eye open and all the blood rushes from his face. "Get the fuck out, Connor!"

Connor can't. He can't move. His eyes are glued to the sight. The bend of Hank's spine, the tilt of his hips. He can't see where the toy is stretching him open from this angle, but he can imagine it. Reconstruct the way Hank's rim must be taut around the girth. Error messages flash across his HUD and his tactile sensors kick up a notch unbidden. He's suddenly very annoyed at the feel of his stiff shirt against his synth skin.

"Connor!"

Connor's snaps his gaze to Hank's face. He's angry, flushed red.

"Sorry." Connor sets the water and the plate of sandwiches on the floor. "I didn't mean to-." But he did, and if there's one person Connor doesn't want to be dishonest with, it's Hank. "I'll leave you be."

"Yes, go!"

Connor eases the door shut and steps away. Every inch hurts like a lance through his wires. Hank's groans pick up before he's even made it to the end of the hallway.

He hopes Hank eats the sandwiches and drinks the damned water.

\--

It's midnight by the time Hank ambles out of the bedroom. Connor perks up at the sound of the door. Sumo stirs on his lap and flops off the couch to race after Hank. He's been stressed out, too, panting and shedding all over the couch. Sumo isn't the most sensitive dog, but even he's realized something is wrong with Hank.  

Hank mumbles something affectionate to Sumo and slips into the bathroom. The shower starts a moment later. Sumo doesn't come back. Connor can't blame him, he'd like to curl up in front of the bathroom door too. Whine until Hank gives in and lets them both check him over.

When Hank stumbles out into the living room, it's the second time in one day that Connor has seen him shirtless, and Connor feels greedy for it. He flips on his reconstruction software even though there's nothing to reconstruct, just for the added seconds, the lag in reality and he slows down and zooms in. Hank's skin is pink, either from the shower or the fever of his heat. His hair is damp and in disarray. He's walking with a limp, slow, ginger steps. Already there's already a drop of lubricant sliding down the loose leg of his boxers, mingling with the dampness from the shower. Connor's inspection reaches Hank's face, and he realizes he's been caught staring.

Hank doesn't look angry about it, but he does look tired.

Connor exits the program. "Are you feeling better?"

"Marginally." Hank shrugs. "My heats were always bad. This one is a lot easier. Forgot how much it takes out of you. I think I'm gonna sleep for a week when this is over." He pauses, considering. "Thanks for the sandwiches."

Hank flops haphazardly over the couch. His knee brushes against Connor's thigh, and Connor lights up with a hot rush of feeling. If he were human it might have elicited a blush. As it were, he remained stoic and still, hands curled around the book in his lap. It's inefficient to read paper copies of novels when he can just download entire works into his head, but he likes this. The feel of paper under his fingers, the slightly musty smell. Finding Hank's greasy fingerprints smudging the ink of well-worn passages. The process is slower, but Connor finds he doesn't mind taking the time to read each word individually.

Hank had been amused the first time he caught Connor flipping through one of his old paperbacks.

He'd come up behind Connor, settled a heavy hand on his shoulder, and leaned over him to pluck a novel off the top shelf. It was worn, the spine cracked. The cover was bright orange and garish. _Starship Troopers,_ Robert A Heinlein.

"This might be more your speed." Hank clapped his shoulder and stepped away.

Connor stared at it, brow furrowed. "Isn't this the movie with the bugs?" The movie Connor had told Hank was asinine and ridiculous. Hank had laughed and jeered the entire time they'd watched it, through all the ridiculous gore and cheesy action scenes. Connor didn't mind watching Hank, but the movie had been atrocious, even to his barely developed sense of taste.

Hank shrugged. "The book is different."

The book _was_ different. More serious. More... totalitarian, with none of the humor. It gave him a greater appreciation for the film, which Connor supposed was Hank's purpose behind the recommendation. Or maybe not. Hank had thrown a lot of books at him that Connor raised an eyebrow at.

 _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep_ indeed.

"Mind if I hang out with you for a while?" Hank rubs the back of his neck as he asks, uncertainty written all over his face.

"Of course not." Connor sets the book aside and flicks the television on with a blink of his LED. "Is it... over?"

"Eh." Hank shrugs. "Used to last a week back in the day. Like I said, I got them pretty bad. Hopefully this one goes by quicker."

Likely just a break between cycles, then. Hank's heartbeat is still elevated, his temperature still higher than normal. Connor wants to touch his fingers to the juncture of Hank's neck where the first beads of sweat were accumulating, and take a sample. He might even convince Hank to let him under the guise of predicting the length of his heat.

If Connor had been a human, an alpha, he would have been able to smell it.

"Don't mind watching something dumb with me, do you? Pretty sure my brains have trickled out my ass. I don't think I could handle a think piece right now."

Connor smiles and flicks the channel to an old cartoon network. Hank hums his approval and settles into the couch, throwing an arm over the back. His thumb bumps Connor's shoulder. Connor leans into it and turns back to his book.

Hank is snoring before the first episode is over, slumped against Connor's side and drooling into his shirt. Connor shifts a little so Hank's neck isn't at such an awkward angle, which mostly results in Connor turning into the cushions so Hank's face is pillowed on his chest. Connor watches his face. The way his eyelids flutter, how his mouth is partially open, revealing the gap between his front teeth. His hair is plastered over his forehead and Connor can't help brushing it behind his ear (that's a lie, he could, but he doesn't want to).

It's not the first time Hank has fallen asleep on him, on the couch. It _is_ the first time he's done it shirtless, though, and Connor can feel the heat of Hank's skin through the thin fabric of his button-up.

There's an ache in his chest, not dissimilar from when he had his thirium pump regulator pulled out. It's a low, lonely feeling, a deep buzz of electricity draining out of him.

It's want. Connor knows. It's the desire for something he absolutely cannot have because he lacks the capacity to be what Hank _needs_ . Even if Connor is fairly certain Hank is exactly what _Connor_ needs. It's something at least, that Hank hasn't gone out looking for someone to satisfy him during his heat. Connor wouldn't have said anything, but it would have killed him a little bit, to step out of the house and let someone have Hank in all the ways Connor can't. To help him, where Connor couldn't, even though Connor's had the Mission Objective: _Alleviate Hank's Distress_ blinking red in the corner of his HUD all day long.

Hank makes a pained noise and grinds his hips down. The beginnings of an erection tent his boxers. The smell of pheromones comes back in full force. Connor isn't sure if he should stir Hank awake or let him return to consciousness on his own. Either way, he'll be mortified by what's happening, and Connor's assurances that it's all natural, biological, no need to be embarrassed, won't help at all. Connor doesn't have to preconstruct the scenario to know.

Hank grunts and turns his face into Connor's neck, breathing hot against his skin. Connor feels it right to his core, sizzling hot electric. Connor can't take this.

"Hank." Connor settles his hand on Hank's shoulder and gives him a soft shake.

Hank grumbles, words muffled against Connor's shoulder, and thrusts his erection against Connor's thigh.

Connor is glad, so glad, he doesn't need to breathe.

" _Hank,"_ he repeats, carefully programming his voice to a natural, neutral tone. Exactly the opposite of how he feels.

Hank stills. Muscles stiffen and tense under Connor's fingers. He leans back, wiping the drool off his lip with the back of his hand, and meets Connor's eyes.

"Fuck," he says. He's up and over the couch, fleeing for the bedroom, before Connor has formulated a plan.

The sound of the bedroom door slamming shut rattles Connor. He draws his feet up onto the couch and rests his head on his knees. He's a deviant now, he's allowed to feel sorry for himself.

Hank taught him how.

\--

Connor goes to work because he has to. He sits at his desk and stares blankly at the computer terminal, his LED spinning yellow. Gavin says something obtuse and Connor ignores him. Not on purpose, although it has the added advantage of being the response that annoys Gavin the most, so it's win/win either way. The day drags on. Connor fiddles with his coin. He runs personal diagnostics to occupy more of his CPU. He reads and re-reads case files that have gone cold.

Jeffrey struts out of his office at one o’clock on the dot. He must be going for lunch. Jeffrey winds passed Connor without pausing. He stops a few feet further and turns around, his face a storm.

"What are you doing here?"

Connor looks up from his computer screen. "I... working?"

"Why aren't you with Hank?"

As far as Connor knew, Jeffrey was the only one aware of the exact nature of Hank's sick leave. It's a strange question to ask. Why _would_ Connor be with Hank? Connor wants to be, of course, but Jeffrey doesn't know that. Jeffrey can't possibly be aware of the ache, deep deep inside Connor's hardware.

" _Who_ is with Hank?" Jeffrey continues, rounding on him.

Connor blinks and contemplates his answer. Jeffrey's heart rate has elevated a few beats per minute and he's exhibited signs of stress, concern. Of course. Jeffrey is an alpha, and although their relationship has been strained of late, he and Hank were close. His worry is programmed into his biology as much as Connor's desire to complete mission objects was programmed into him.

"No one," Connor answers honestly.

Jeffrey makes a noise like an enraged rhinoceros and stares at the ceiling. His mouth forms the words 'fucking idiot' but he doesn't say it out loud, so Connor pretends he doesn’t notice.

"Go home, Connor." Jeffrey jabs a finger at Connor's chest." Keep an eye on that stupid bastard before he hurts himself."

"I've got cases..."

"No you don't. Get out of here." Jeffrey whirls around and throws his hands in the air. "We'll call you in if anything comes up. Don't let Hank bully you."

Connor doesn't understand why Jeffrey wants him gone, but home is exactly where he wants to be.

So he leaves.

He remembers to swing by the grocery store on his way back and picks up quick, easy finger food and a tub of icecream. The cashier is an older woman, an omega, and nods knowingly as she rings him through. She doesn't say anything about his LED.

\--

Hank is actually out of the bedroom when Connor gets home, but the sight isn't reassuring. He's seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, looking absolutely wrecked. He shivers intermittently, lips parted, puffing out tiny pained noises. Sumo is curled up at his feet, jowls against his calf, his tail thumping anxiously on the floor. Connor doesn't hold it against him that he doesn't come to the door to greet him, as per their usual routine.

Hank's hands fall away from his face at the sound of Connor jangling the door shut. He tenses. Snaps his gaze to the microwave where Connor knows the time is displayed. Worry, confusion, embarrassment all tumble over his face before he lands on annoyance and leans back in his chair. He's stiff and his cheek ticks in discomfort as he settles.

"You're home early." Hank pushes the hair out of his face and eyes the hallway. Connor can see in the lines of his body that he wants to run, but he's too stiff to actually get up and do it.

"I picked up some groceries. Are you hungry?" Connor keeps his eyes off Hank as he unloads the plastic bags into the fridge.

Hank is slow to respond. "I could eat."

Connor pops open a container of pre-sliced fruit and slides it across the table until it's between Hank's forearms. Hank stares down, lips curled in distaste, but he tosses a piece into his mouth. He makes a surprised noise when he digs through the top layer of cantelope to find pineapple underneath. He eats with more gusto after that.

"You didn't have to do this," he says between bites, rubbing the sticky juice off on his shirt, because Hank has never given a shit about his appearance and the shirt is already covered in stains.

Connor puts away the icecream and takes a seat across from him. "I want to help in whatever capacity I can."

Hank's eyes snap to his. His face freezes and it's the odd expression from yesterday all over again, pinched and tight, drawing all over Connor like Hank is trying to analyze _him_ . Connor supposes he could, in his own way. Hank is a detective and he might not have protocols and programs, but he’s observant. Connor suffers the scrutiny in silence, trying to make his face open, _sincere_. This is not an obligation. This is not a chore.

Connor wants to do this, for Hank. For himself, too, so he doesn't have to sit back and watch Hank suffer. He wants to push all his feelings out there on his face so Hank can read them. He's too much of a coward to say them out loud, but if Hank could find them out himself, he could chose what direction to take them. Feelings suck, and Connor wishes he had the computing capacity to just _understand_ them. Messy, illogical, hurtful things.

"I don't understand why," Hank says, finally. "What do you get out of it?"

"You gave me a place to stay-."

Hank starts to protest, but Connor cuts him off.

"You buy me paperback novels even though I know they're hard to find and you already have all of your favorites. You let me listen to Pink when we drive, even though I know you don't like her. You do routine maintenance on me when I need it, so I don't have to go back to CyberLife." Connor wants to reach across the table. He wants to touch Hank in some capacity, in any capacity. If they were on the couch he could get away with it, but they're on opposite sides of the table and Hank is curled over himself, defensive. "You've helped me learn how to become a person. What do _you_ get out of _that_?"

Hank's next breath is sharp. His heart rate kicks up even though the heat hasn't hit him again, stress level rising. Connor doesn't understand why.

Connor takes a chance. "It's the same for me."

Hank snorts a laugh, self-deprecating and humorless. "No, it's not."

"Hank..."

Hank shivers and a groan crawls it way out between his clenched teeth. He clutches the edge of the table, white knuckled and trembling. His face flushes pink all the way to the collar of his shirt. The heat is back. Hank pushes back his chair, inch by inch, every muscle in his body strung tight. He keeps a hand on the table to support himself as he rises. He steadies himself with a deep breath then staggers toward the hallway, pointedly avoiding Connor's gaze.

Connor can't take it. He can't take this. He grabs Hank's wrist, gentling his grip immediately. "Let me help you."

Hank inhales sharply. Connor can't _not_ notice the dilation of his pupils, the surge of Hank's pulse under his fingertips.

Hank rips his wrist from Connor's grip, teeth bared. "I don't need a pity fuck. I can handle it myself." He jerks toward his bedroom, unsteady.

"I want to." Connor sweeps to his feet. "I want _you_."

Hank stops. He clutches the wall. His shoulders rise and fall. It's several seconds before he collects himself enough to turn back to Connor. "What?"

"I want to..." Connor takes a step forward. "...fuck you. I _want_ to."

Hank groans. It's a desperate, dark red noise that rattles his throat and sends a jolt through Connor's code. His analysis software is working double time. It picks up a thousand cues at once, but the most prominent is the sudden gush of slick running down Hank's bare thighs. It's not a response to hormones. Connor can't produce them. Connor isn't an alpha.

Hank leans his shoulder against the wall, panting hard. He squeezes his eyes shut. When they open again, his pupils are blown so wide Connor can just make out a sliver of blue around the black.

"You..." Hank starts. He swallows thickly and tries to stand up straight. He doesn't quite manage it. "Unless you've gotten some upgrades since the last time I saw you naked, you don't have a cock. How the fuck do you think you're going to accomplish this?"

It's not a no. It's defensive, but Connor doesn't blame him. Hank is a raw nerve, exposed and hyper-sensitive.

"I'm adaptable and creative." Connor kicks up the corner of his mouth, tamping down his nerves. "And unlike an alpha, I have unlimited stamina. I don't have to stop."

"Fuck." Hank shivers. Connor watches his cock twitch behind the confines of his boxers. He's been half-hard the whole time, but that's the heat. He can't help it.

"Why now?" Hank grits his teeth. "You never said anything before, so why the fuck _now_?"

Connor lowers his eyes. He doesn't want to answer with anything other than complete honestly, but it's hard. He's still not entirely certain if Hank is interested in the sex, the relief from his heat, or... or Connor. And Connor would do it either way. He'll take anything he can get from Hank, and if this, if helping Hank through a heat, is the only way Connor can be physically close with him, intimate with him, he's going to do it.

But he's not going to lie.

"I didn't know if you'd want me." A pause. He looks up at Hank through half-lidded eyes. "The same way I want you."  

Hank makes another strangled noise. When Connor looks up, his forehead his plastered against the wall and his hands are curled into fists. Connor takes a step forward.

"Shit," says Hank," Fuck. We're both idiots." He turns back to Connor and pushes his hair out of his face with a shaky hand.

"Hank?"

"We're gonna talk about this," says Hank, pressing his back to the wall, breathing hard. "Before we do anything - _fuck_ \- we gotta... Can you even get off?"

"Yes." Connor answers immediately, no hesitation. "It may seem unconventional to you, but I can... derive pleasure from physical stimulation."

"Connor, I've got two brain cells right now and they aren't on speaking terms. You wanna elaborate on that for me?"

"I have protocols and programs that allow me to achieve sexual gratification. I can increase the sensitivity in my dermal sensors - my skin - and _rub off_ you might say. But the sensations are better if it's internal."

Hank rakes his eyes to Connor's groin. "Internal?"

He's got the wrong idea. Connor holds out his hand, letting the hologram of his skin peel away to reveal the white of his chassis. He flips his palm over and activates a panel in his wrist, making it slide out of the way, exposing wires and tubes thrumming beneath the plastic.

" _Internal_."

"Oh." Hank stares. "Shit... that's..."

Too weird for him. Connor retracts the panel and lets his skin flow back over his fingertips.  Nice, normal. Human, once again. Hank reaches out and brushes his fingers over Connor's wrist, where a pulse point would be if he were human.

"Intimate," Hank concludes.

It's not the answer Connor was expecting.

"You're gonna have to help me out with that." Hank is still holding his wrist, staring at it, like he's expecting something to happen just from brushing his fingers over it.

Something _does_.  The thrum of Hank's heartbeat through his fingers, against Connor's sensors, makes Connor want to melt.  

"Because I barely have an understanding of how you work inside and I'm pretty fucking useless right now." Hank’s voice is gritty and deep. Strained.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying yes, dumbass." Hank steps away from the wall. His knees tremble. His legs shake. He keeps an arm up to brace himself. "Come fuck me."

"Oh." Something heated pools deep in Connor's system. An error pops up in his vision. Thirium Pump Regulator working out of sync. He dismisses it and surges toward Hank, pressing him back against the wall.. Connor insinuates a leg between his slick thighs and Hank makes a noise like he’s dying. Hank rocks against him, fisting his jacket. His brow bowed against Connor, damp with sweat.

Hank pants, open mouthed, so Connor ducks in and seals their lips together. Hank lets out a startled moan and Connor takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue inside Hank's mouth. He's hot. Burning up. Connor tastes the pineapple on his tongue, beneath the flush of pheromones and desperation. Connor grips Hank's thighs and yanks him up against the wall. He's so wet he’s slippery, difficult to gain purchase on, but Hank curls his legs around Connor's middle and hooks his ankles together.

"Holy fuck." Hank lets out a breathy laugh. "I knew you were strong."

"Stronger than a human alpha." Connor nuzzles against Hank's neck, his beard. Hank clutches his shoulders and shakes.

"You're a jealous fucker, aren't you?"

Connor decides not to correct him.

He wasn't jealous of the concept of alphas, of someone having _had_ Hank before. Connor didn’t have anything to worry about where his strength or stamina was concerned. Connor didn’t necessarily _want_ to be an alpha. He just wanted to have… what Hank needed. He was insecure, swallowed up by the lack of proper parts to keep Hank satisfied, to make Hank _not_ want anyone else.

Hank had truckloads of insecurities, Connor couldn't be blamed for having one or two of his own.

He definitely wants to prove to Hank that he'll never need a real alpha ever again.

Connor shifts Hank's weight off the wall and carries him down the hall. Hank left his bedroom door open, thank rA9, so Connor has a clear path to deposit Hank on the bed. The sheets were ruined, rumpled mess of Hank's slick and sex toys.

They were various lengths and thicknesses. Silicone or cyberskin. One was a thick anal plug with a sensible base, in an absolutely garish swirl of obnoxious blue and electric green. It seemed Hank's taste for loud colors extended further than his wardrobe. One was a dildo, reasonably realistic with a knot at the base to stimulated penetration by an alpha. It wasn't particularly long or thick, but it looked... well used.

Connor drops to his knees on the bed and crawls over Hank, pressing his hand to the sliver of skin visible from where his shirt had rucked up. Hank hisses, quivering under Connor's touch.

"Fuck, that feels good." Hank grabs Connor's wrist and urges him further up, under his shirt. "Like a cold cloth. S'nice."

"Not too cold?" Connor could adjust the temperature in his hands if need be.

Hank shakes his head. "Perfect."

A thrill of excitement shudders through Connor's core. _Perfect_.

Connor peels Hank's shirt off and tosses it to the floor. His boxers follow shortly after, and for the first time Connor gets to see Hank naked, completely and utterly naked. The trail of greying hair continues to Hank's naval, his groin, where his cock is flushed and angry red, pearling pre-come at the slit. Hank is thick and soft everywhere, but when Connor puts his hands on his thighs he can feel the muscle beneath the layer of subcutaneous fat.

_Perfect._

"Stop looking at me like that," Hank huffs.

"Like what?"

"All dopey and shit." Hank looks away, face against his arm, jaw tight. "I'm not all that."

"You are." Connor trails his fingers through the hair on Hank's legs, and up again to the v of his groin, brushing his knuckles against the base of Hank's cock. "You absolutely are."

Hank hisses. His hips jerk. Connor lowers his hand between Hank's thighs and slips his fingers through the slick he finds there. Hank lets out a strangled groan and grinds down.

"Don't tease me," Hank growls," I am _so_ not in the fucking mood for that."

Connor chuckles and presses his fingers against Hank's entrance. There's very little resistance. Connor adjusts the sensitivity in his fingertips and slips one inside of him. And it's... oh... it's...

Soft and wet and perfect and warm. It feels like sliding home, like being wrapped in Hank. Hank clenches down around him and it shoots shivering shocks up Connor's arm, eliciting a groan from them both.

"Are you sore?"

"Yeah." Hank squirms, expression pinched. " Body's not used to this anymore. It's not bad, hurts worse not to do anything about it, but just... go slow, yeah?"

"Of course." Connor extracts his finger and Hank _snarls,_ fisting the sheets. Connor soothes his hand down Hank's thigh. "Roll over?"

"I can't exactly fiddle with your wires if I'm not facing you."

"I know." Connor taps his leg to encourage him. "Humor me?"

Hank does, with a grunt and a sharp look, rolling stiffly to his knees. Connor reaches over him to grab a pillow and slides it under Hank's hips, pressing on his lower back until he settles down on top of it, knees splayed but no longer holding his weight. He's been at this for a day and a half now, he's got to be exhausted. He _is_ exhausted. Connor can see it in the strain of his muscles, the tired panting, the bags under his eyes.

Connor settles between Hank's thighs and trails his hands down the swell of his ass. His thighs are glistening with slick. There's _so much of it_. Connor doesn't know if that's normal or just Hank. Connor pulls his cheeks apart and Hank lets out a noise that might be a whimper, if Connor didn't know how badly Hank would protest if he'd called it that outloud.

His rim is red and sore, but still leaking. It flutters when Connor breathes over it, eliciting a groan from Hank.

"Just... be careful," Hank breathes.

As if Connor would be anything but.

Connor leans in and gives him an experimental lick, the gentlest flick of his tongue, catching the slick as it rolls out of him.

"Oh," Hank's groan is breathless," Yeah... yeah that's... yeah. Fuckin' A."

Connor dives in again, pressing the flat of his tongue over Hank's hole, and Hank's entire body shudders against him. His muscles go tense under Connor's hand. He's trembling, pushing back against Connor with the subtlest tilt of his hips. Connor reaches underneath him to loop his fingers around the base of Hank's cock.

He uses his other hand to keep Hank open. There's spit - analysis fluid - running down Connor's chin, and it's obscene, but he doesn't care. It's not as if Hank can see him down here anyway. The taste of Hank's slick is purer like this, right up against the source. Sweet and heady, Connor's swallowing as much of it as he can, as he thinks his hardware will allow. The thought of that, of something of Hank, _inside_ himself, makes Connor quiver.

He wants more. He wants so much _more_ than this. He wants everything Hank will give him. He wants to commit it to memory, back it up on the cloud, make sure he never loses a microsecond of this. He wants to dedicate entire processors to this so he won't miss a single thing.

Instead, he pushes his tongue hard against Hank's rim and presses inside.

The sound Hank makes is somewhere between a sob and a shout. Connor pauses, ready to pull back, but Hank's reached back to grab his arm, fingers iron-bar tight around him.

" _Don't stop._ "

So Connor doesn't.

"You're so fucking perfect, honey," Hank growls against the pillows, voice muffled.

Connor turns up his audio processors to catch it. Commit it. Drown in it.

"That's so fucking... god this is the best idea... fuck..."

Hank's rocking back against his face now, trying to drive his tongue deeper, although they both know that there's limitations to this. Connor pulls out to hear Hank croon, and sucks and kisses all around him until Hank's abused hole is wet with spit and slick.

"Can I have..." Hank starts.

Connor slips a finger back inside him and Hank groans, content, and falls boneless to the bed.

"That's it," he pants," Just like that."

"Do you want one of the toys?" Connor presses a kiss to Hank's flank and crooks his finger. He keeps his pace slow and gentle, and Hank seems pleased with that, punching soft noises out of his mouth.

"That's not... what about you...?"

"Fingers are unlikely to satisfy your heat." It's an unfortunate truth. Connor wishes it weren't. He can adjust the sensitivity anywhere in his body, but he only has so much to work with. An idea pops into his head, something he hadn't previously considered, but... "With enough preparation I might be able to fist you."

"Oh _fuck_." Hank's hip buck against Connor's finger.

"Would you like that?"

"I... fuck..." Hank shoves his face into his pillow and the rest of what he has to say is too distorted for Connor to make out.

"Hank?" Connor slides a second finger in, slow and careful, pushing Hank's slick back inside himself.

Hank turns his head. He's panting, flushed, sweaty. "I... don't think... not right now. I don't think I could take it. Maybe if I'd... fuck."

Maybe if they'd done this earlier in his heat, before Hank was sore and stretched and tired.

Something to keep in mind. For next time.

"Just fingers then." Connor presses a kiss to his flank. "Can you roll onto your back?"

Hank grunts. Connor pulls his fingers out to let Hank rearrange himself, and Hank cuts off an annoyed click at the empty sensation. His body wants to be filled. And Hank wants... wants...

"You're not even undressed," Hank props himself up on his elbows, his knees still thrown apart. His cock is leaking precum over his belly and Connor wants to taste it.

"I." Connor looks down at himself. "I don't have anything..."

"Jesus, throw me a bone here, kid. I can't possibly be more fucking exposed right now. Wanna even the playing field a bit?"

It's true. Hank doesn't like being shirtless, let alone completely naked. Connor has never watched him willingly undress in front of him - or anyone. Hank's legs are still splayed, _presenting,_ and Hank's watching Connor's face carefully. But Connor's afraid. Afraid that Hank isn't going to like what he sees. Afraid that Hank's going to balk at how... lacking Connor is. How inhuman.

But it's not fair for Hank to be this open and for Connor to hide himself away.

He divests himself of his suit and tie first, laying them both carefully on the edge of the bed, and starts on the buttons.

Hank _growls_ . He's reached around to thrust two fingers inside himself, twisting his wrist, arching his back. _Impatient_ . He's watching Connor though. Boring into him with a white hot stare, lips pulled back to reveal all his teeth. " _Connor_."

Connor shoves the rest of his clothes off in record time. He settles back on the bed, on his knees, and touches Hank's calves tentatively. Hank's stare _burns_.

Connor knows what he looks like. He was designed to be attractive, and he _is,_ with a smooth, muscled chest and trim waist. He has nipples, at least, and a dusting of freckles that leads down his abdomen and over his hips. No hair. Pale skin. And, in between his legs, absolutely nothing. Just a smooth, featureless mound. Connor can't help pushing his palm against it, shy.

"What's it feel like?" Hank's voice is broken and deep.  Cracked from exertion.

"It feels..." It feels good. Connor knocks up his sensitivity and leans into his touch, stroking his fingers over the bare skin. He's been able to get off just from this. Touching his featureless groin, his thighs, his wrists. Sucking on his own fingers and imagining they're Hank's. "Satisfactory."

Hank growls again and slips his fingers out of himself with a lewd squelch. He reaches for Connor. Connor slides between his legs and braces himself over top of Hank, threading Hank's hair out of his eyes. It's sweaty. Damp. Unbrushed. Hank is really shit at taking care of himself. Hank's hands fall to Connor's hips, fingers digging into the flesh. Ten spots of glorious heat. Connor groans and pushes into them.

"That's good?" Hank's voice is quiet. "Just that?"

"It always feels good when you touch me, Hank. Keep going."

"Fuck. I..." Hank grimaces and clutches harder. "I need something in me right the fuck now, Connor."

Connor obliges him.  He slips two fingers into Hank's wet hole and rocks them gently against his body. Hank's back bows, the cords in his neck going tense. He drags his hands up Connor's sides and leaves wakes of molten fire behind him, everywhere he touches. He's gasping the word _fuck_ over and over as his legs shake and clamp around Connor's thighs. It's better than anything Connor's played out in his mind.

"Open... open something up for me, Connor." Hank grinds his hips back against Connor's fingers. "You said... _ah_... you said it feels better inside..."

Oh.

Connor plays the potential scenarios out in his mind palace. Hank doesn't think it's strange, or it's some level of oddity that he's willing to deal with, but Connor doesn't want to push the limits of what Hank can handle. And in Hank's current state, he's unlikely to be very coordinated, which leaves them with only a few options, for the sake of safety. Connor doesn't want Hank electrocuting himself by touching the wrong thing, and Connor doesn't want to short circuit and miss a single second of any of this.

Connor deactivates the skin of his back. He feels the sharp tingle of it retracting from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. Hank's fingers scramble against him and he lets out a shaky huff. He can feel the difference, where soft skin smooths away into hard plastic. Trepidation bubbles in Connor’s synapses, but Hank's body clenches around his fingers, tight and hot, and Hank _groans_ like someone's killing him.

He likes it.

Hank _likes_ it.

Connor slides open the ports in his shoulders. They're the safest. Just empty metal parts meant to hold him up on a chassis platform while he's being worked on. Connor hasn't needed to use them since this body was activated and he's glad for that. There's no sensitive wiring there, nothing Hank can break. There's more along his spine, the dimples above his pelvis. He opens them all. Hank's fingers find the first by accident, brushing against the heated metal edge.

Connor gasps. It's... it's like being shocked. Like charging himself with something that's not quite compatible, a crackling feedback loop just the right side of dangerous. Hank swirls his fingers around the rim and dips inside of it.

"H _ankkk_." Connor's voice glitches out half-way through the syllable.

"Jesus." Hank thrusts his fingers deeper.

Error messages - overheating, incompatible components inserted - pop up all over Connor's HUD. He dismisses every last on of them and bends over Hank, capturing his mouth in a kiss that makes his wires thrum. The vibration runs up _Hank's_ arm and they have to break apart to groan, Hank gasping hard to catch his breath.

"Fuck, Connor. I need-."

A knot. He needs a knot.

"Which one?"

Hank turns his head. Connor follows his gaze and it's easy to map out what he's looking at. The smaller toy, the more realistic one, in tanned flesh tone. Not lengthy, but the knot is wide at the base. Connor reaches for it with his spare hand and Hank drives his fingers deeper into the lower back port. Connor's muscles spasm, glitch. He can't take hold of the dildo. Hank's other hand comes up around his side and gropes across his back until he finds another, and he swirls his fingernails against the rim.

"Hank. Stop."

Hank does, immediately, stilling his fingers where they're buried inside Connor's body. "Your voice is fucked up."

As if Hank's was any better.

Connor grabs the dildo and eases his fingers out of Hank's body. Hank whimpers, _whines_ at the loss, his teeth clenched so hard Connor can hear them grinding against one another. Connor doesn't bother to take his time. He lines the head of the toy up against Hank's entrance and slides it in, slow and careful, inch by inch. And every steady push makes Hank relax into the bed, panting, flushed. Leaking pre-cum and slick between them both.

"Go ahead," Connor braces himself and rocks the toy into Hank's stretched hole, pressing the knot against him without ever pushing it inside. "You can touch me again. I've got it." Sort of. Connor thinks he can ground himself against the sensation without losing motor control. He kills processes as Hank's fingers glide over the ports again, focuses his CPU on staying functional, because it's so, _so_ much more  than when he touches himself.

They pick up a rhythm. Hank's fingers circle the ports and dip inside, making Connor shiver. And Connor slides the toy smooth and slow, relishing the wet hot noises that drag out of Hank with every careful twist of his wrist.

Connor feels his orgasm building up his spine. Hank's fingers curl and delve deep and the long pit of pleasure erupts inside him. Connor shivers, stills, _gasps_ Hank's name in a string that's more mechanical than human, and gets swept up in the tide of it, so strong that his vision falters and he loses precious, precious seconds.

Hank's hands slip out and soothe down his flanks. His face is reverent when Connor can see him again.

"Did you just...?"

"Yes." Connor grins.

"Bite me." Hank tilts his head to the side, exposing the length of his neck.

Connor's thirium pump tosses up another error. Despite his earlier boasting, his pace falters. Connor wants to, he wishes he could, he wants it more than _anything_ , but - "I can't bond with you, Hank."

"I know," Hank growls," Fuck, I know. Do it anyway."

Connor bends over him. He presses his lips under Hank's jaw. Hank shivers and clutches his arms, grinding down on the toy. Connor edges his teeth against Hank's skin and Hank shivers, tensing all over. A noise chokes off and dies in his throat, so Connor bites down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Hank's reaction is immediate and intense. His back bows. His dick pulses thick streams of ejaculate between them. Connor tastes a burst of pheromones under his tongue, heady and overwhelming. Too much at once to analyze. He's overheating, heart pumping thrium through his system to cool him down. It's not enough.

Hank comes down shaking and sweating, panting wetly. His eyes are open, but dazed. He feels completely boneless under Connor. Connor twists the toy, making sure the base is snug against Hank's hole, and leaves it there. Hank goes taut again, head thrown back against the pillow. Connor eases off his throat and laves the sting away with his tongue.

"Fuck, Connor." Hank is breathless.

"Do you feel any better?"

"I feel..." Hank chokes off a laugh. "I feel like you broke me. Jesus." He throws an arm over his face, but his mouth is still visible, and he's grinning, lopsided. Connor wants to kiss the gap in his teeth. Instead, he settles back to get a good look at him.

"I love you."

Hank freezes, his smile faltering. Connor wants to do something to put it back there, but he doesn't want to take the words back. If he can't say it now, then when? Probabilities and statistics don't mean anything with Hank. This is a gamble but Connor can't keep it inside anymore. It's like pressure on his thirium pump, too much built up, and he'll shut-down if he doesn't relieve some of it.

Hank lets out a shaky breath. "God knows why."

" _I_ know why." Connor presses his hand to Hank's chest. Sweaty, hair matted, the thud of his heart strong under Connor's palm.

Hank pulls his hand away to meet Connor's eyes. He's searching for something, Connor doesn't know what, but he doesn't shy away from the scrutiny.

"C'mere." Hank tugs on his shoulder.

Connor settles next to him and slots their mouths together. It's slow and lazy, just lips, no tongue. Hank is too tired to start anything more than this, and that's fine with Connor. He's just happy they're doing this at all. That he's not being pushed away.

"I... uh..." Hank starts, when they've broken apart so Hank can breathe,"... I do too."

"What?" Connor knows what he means, but he wants to hear it.

"I... love you too. _Prick_." Hank drags a hand over his face and looks away. "I've been such an idiot. I just thought you couldn't..." he waves a hand, gesticulating vaguely,"... do any of this. Or want it. Let alone with a washed up old bitch like me."

Connor frowns. He's well aware of Hank self-deprecating habits, his lack of self-worth. He knows how Hank sees himself and it's immensely frustrating to hear him talk like that. It's years of self-confidence problems, depression, alcoholism, and Connor isn't going to do away with it all in a couple days with a few pretty words.

"Can I show you something?"

"Do I have to move?"

"It might be easier in the living room." Connor cocks his head and arches an eyebrow. "I could carry you."

"Ugh." Hank pales. "What's the other option?"

"Your phone?"

Hank jerks his chin at the side table, where his cell sits, charging. Connor leans over him to grab it and the charge cord. He shuffles and hands Hank the end of the cord, turning so he's facing away from him. Connor deactivates the skin around his neck and presses the side of a panel until it pops free. There's a USB port there, among the wires and thirium tubing, right where the juncture of his spine would be.

"Do you mind?"

"Uh... sure." Hank's hands are unsteady as he slides the cable in.

Connor settles back on the pillows and plugs the other end into the phone, squishing close until he's pressed against Hank's side and they can both see the screen.

"I'm going to upload some memories. Nothing too large, your phone can't handle it."

"Yeah, I figure you've got a bit more storage space in you than this old thing." Hank curls an arm around Connor's shoulders until they're pressed skin-tight, ribs  to thigh. "What're we watching?"

"What I think about when I... stimulate myself."

"Masturbate."

Connor huffs. " _Yes_ , Hank."

"Alright."

The screen flickers to life announcing a data transfer. Connor has to compress the files for them to fit on Hank's phone at all and he knows the footage will be grainy because of it. It's mostly memories, which should read just fine, but he's uncertain how the preconstruction software will show up on Hank's horrendously outdated phone. Connor wasn't made to be backward compatible.

The first file loads. Connor swipes his thumb over the screen to play it.

It's Hank, of course. In their living room, dressed in an old Slayer t-shirt that's had the sleeves ripped off. Music storms out of the record player and Hank's got a hairbrush in his hand, using it like a microphone as he sings along. Sumo dances around his feet, feeding off his energy. Connor watches from somewhere closer to the floor, re-organizing stacks of movies - _cleaning,_ which is what they were supposed to be doing, when Hank got distracted by a favorite song.

He's energetic. Flushed. Excited. _Lively_.

Connor wants to... he wants...

So he _does_.

PRECONSTRUCTION LOADING...

...

...

...

Hank, on the screen, glitches and freezes in place while the video continues. Static-y white lines draw out from where Connor was watching and rise up, walking toward Hank. The impression of pre-construction Connor's arms go to Hank's waist. More lines pull away from Hank, an artist's sketch, a pale comparison. 'Connor' pulls the fantasy Hank back against himself and dips him down, so Connor can slot their mouths together. It doesn't look like a kiss on the screen. Just two head-shaped things bumping against one another. Connor drops fantasy Hank on the couch, and the fantasy Hank grabs him (his jacket, Connor had pictured, but the preconstruction software considers clothing irrelevant, so the swipe looks off center), and pulls Connor over him.

Connor blinks and switches to another memory.

It's summer. They're outside. The car is filthy and Hank's dragged out buckets of sponges and soap to wash it off. Takes better care of the car than he does himself, but Connor doesn't say this. They soak the car down with garden hoses and Hank starts a water fight by turning his on Connor, jacket and all. The memory goes blurry for a moment until Connor blinks the water out of his visual sensors. He turns his own hose on Hank and the car is forgotten. They're both sopping wet and filthy, and Sumo's been tromping through the muddy grass around their feet, making it worse.

Hank's shirt clings to him. It's dark, not translucent, but Connor doesn't need it to be. The cold water has made his nipples perk to hard nubs straining against the wet cloth. Connor wants to put his mouth on them.

So he does.

PRECONSTRUCTION LOADING...

...

...

Hank freezes with a laugh on his face, head thrown back. Connor's impression sweeps toward him and his hands go to his sides. He pushes the white pencil lined ghost of Hank back against the car and dives down over Hank's chest. The longest line, representing Hank's spine, arches out against Connor's touch. Connor sinks to his knees, slowly, so slowly, and the outline of Hank's hand falls to his hair and dips to the back of his neck.

"Jesus." Hank's breath his unsteady. "Are they all like this?"

"Being domestic with you makes me horny," Connor replies, nonplussed.

Hank laughs, a deep baritone noise, and pulls Connor against his chest. "You've got it bad, kid." Another chuckle, softer this time. "For me of all people."

Connor turns the program off and pulls the cord free from the port in his neck, depositing both on the bed so he can snuggle closer against Hank, wrapped in his arms. Exactly where he wants to be.

"You never _said_ anything," Hank mumbles against Connor's hair.

"I'm not an alpha." Connor frowns. "I wasn't what you needed. I'm inadequate, I-."

"Who the fuck _cares_?" Hank growls, Connor can feel the vibration of it between their bodies. "I don't need you to pop a knot to make me happy. There's nothing inadequate about you, don't you dare fucking say that shit."

 _Hypocrite._ Connor bites it back and smiles into Hank's chest instead.

"Nobody else I'd rather be with." Hank tightens his grip around Connor and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "You're perfect."

"You should eat something more substantial than fruit before the heat hits you again."

"I take it back." Hank pushes him playfully. "You're a nag. Get out of my bed."

Connor does, but not without stealing a kiss, and only because he wants to fetch the butter pecan ice-cream out of the freezer to entice Hank into eating _something_.

\--

 

Two days later, Connor follows Hank back into the precinct.  Hank is chipper, head held up, his hair is actually _brushed_ and pushed out of his face. He's dressed in the brightest, ugliest shirt he owns and wears it like a flag. Connor can't keep the smile off his face.

Gavin shoots them a weird look as they pass. He tilts his head up and sniffs. "You smell fucking weird, Anderson."  

"Did your mom just give up trying to teach you manners?"

Gavin continues, unperturbed. "It's like... someone claimed you - fuck knows   _why_  - but there's no alpha scent. Like a big blank spot. It's fucking wei- _oh_ ." Gavin jolts upright in his chair. His gaze jerks between Connor and Hank. " _Ugh_. You fucked the plastic."

"Nah." Hank shrugs and moves passed him. "Plastic fucked me."

Connor can't help the elated bubbly feeling that rising up through his body. They hadn't discussed letting anyone else know about their relationship. Connor suspected they'd keep it quiet. Hank was a private person, after all, and it was... unconventional. The two of them. To have Hank just come out and say it like that, to _Gavin_ of all people. Well...

Connor pauses, watching Hank's back, and turns incrementally toward Gavin. He winks.

Gavin's face contorts with fury.

"Hank! Connor!" Jeffrey's voice booms from the end of the room. "My office!"

Hank drags his fingers through his hair but the spring in his step doesn't falter as he makes his way up the ramp to Jeffrey's office. Connor follows close behind him, and he can't help but brush his fingers against the small of Hank's back as they slip into the room. Hank shoots him a crooked smile that makes Connor's thirium pump stutter, regulator or no. Hank drops gingerly into one of the seats and Connor follows suit.

Jeffrey frowns at both of them. His nostrils flare. He's trying to be subtle about scenting them.

"Alright." Jeffrey sits down and folds his hands together. "This doesn't affect your work or I'll split the two of you up faster than you can say 'new partners'."

Hank doesn't try denying it. He shoots Connor a warm look and shrugs. "That's fair."

"I don't want any PDA in my precinct. You two keep it professional or I'll have both your asses. We don't need a PR disaster."

Connor flexes his fingers and draws up the statics of his ability to keep his hands away from Hank, now that he knows he can touch him. The probability is low.

"We got it, Jeffrey." Hank throws a hand up dismissively. " No necking in the break room. No fucking in the bathrooms. Don't worry about it."

"I trust Connor to have some self-restraint-"

Connor doesn't.

"-but I can't have you fucking this up in the workplace. And stop antagonizing Reed."

"I didn't do a damn thing."

"Hank, you're the most obtuse omega..."

Hank smiles his pleased, crooked smile. "Damn right."

"... but I'm happy for you. It's about damned time." Jeffrey leans back in his chair, tapping his desk. "I was getting real tired of the two of you."

Hank crosses his arms over his chest and stretches his legs out. He doesn't look upset over the accusation, but he shoots Connor a saucy glance, eyebrow raised. Connor is thankful, again, that he can't blush, but he's certain his LED is blinking yellow which is almost just as bad. He presses his fingers to his temple to try and cover it. Hank's chest quivers with a suppressed laugh.

Jeffrey grunts, startling them both. "You two are fucking disgusting. Get out of my office."

They do. Connor keeps exactly six inches of distance between them as they wind their way back to their desks and boot up their respective terminals. It lasts all of five minutes before he feels something bump against his ankle. Hank's foot.

Connor shoots him a startled look.

Hank grins.

They stay like that, calves pressed together, for the rest of the day.


End file.
